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Wednesday, May 15, 2013

PP goes to Vegas: a recap

Wooo, I'm back from Vegas! The trip actually wasn't as awful as usual this time around -- which isn't to say it wasn't awful; just not as awful as usual.

I made sure to take notes throughout (okay, actually I wrote a bunch of cryptic two-word notes to myself that probably really freaked out the housekeeper who cleaned my room. This notepad legit makes me look like a possible serial killer) so that I could properly report back on how things went.

The trip started out pretty uneventfully. I made it to Vegas quickly and easily, and then there was no line at the taxi stand (I've had to wait like 45 minutes for a cab before, which is really awesome when it's 120F outside and you just got off a long flight and you're not even happy to be there). I thought, "my luck is finally changing!" I figured it must be pregnancy-related -- everyone knows pregnant women are lucky at casinos.

But then I got to Paris and those shitbags wouldn't give me free wifi OR a free one-day gym pass, even though the conference I was there to attend was bringing the hotel hundreds of thousands of dollars in revenue. AND I COULDN'T GET A BLOODY PASS TO THE FITNESS CENTER FOR FREE. They wanted me to pay $25 for that shit. Can you believe it? ANIMALS! So I knew my luck had already run out. 

But that night was Saturday. Saturday night in Las Vegas. Oh boy. And I was sober -- sober, watching it all go down. I learned that the uniform for a proper bachelorette party is a child-sized spandex dress (don't worry if it looks like it's too small -- it's spandex, so when you put it on, it will stretch to accommodate you!). And the uniform for a bachelor party is to look like a complete f**king douche. The worse your boobs are, the less of a shirt you should wear, because everyone is anxious to see just how far your boobs hang down and towards the outside.

By 11PM, roughly 99% of the people walking around in Vegas will be drunk. Drunk, and dressed like idiots. Apparently, midriff-revealing t-shirts are a thing that people wear out of the house (who knew?!). There was a girl in gold lamé stretch pants and a belly shirt. It was so typical of everything I make fun of, I didn't even know how to react. Someone must have planted her there just to boggle my mind.

I also saw a girl in shorteralls over a pink sequined bra. She was walking around in five-inch heels and was drunk. She fell down. No one helped her get up. That's what happens when you fall down in shorteralls, bitch. Your ass stays down.

While I was sitting with a group of coworkers in one of the Paris bars that night, a very VERY drunk woman walked up to us. She was quite old -- at least into her sixties, perhaps seventies -- and walked with a cane. If you have never seen a very drunk person try to walk with a cane, I really recommend it. 

She then latched onto one of the men in our group and started rubbing his head and trying to kiss him. At first I thought she had a terrible speech impediment, but it turned out she was just Australian and so drunk that she slurred all her words together into one giant sound. Apparently, the ability to get painfully drunk by oneself and then walk around making an ass of oneself in Las Vegas does not discriminate by age, nationality, or physical handicap. It is equal opportunity for all.

That night, I was lying in bed watching TV and trying to get to sleep when a commercial came on for a product called "Colon Flow." I have many objections to this product. First of all, whoever came up with that name needs to go into another line of work, or maybe go before a firing squad. Colon Flow? Gross. But most importantly, I object to the need for such a product, which claims to help reduce the amount of "toxic waste" in your digestive tract. Call me crazy, but I feel like for that ailment, the best treatment is prevention. Nobody should be eating toxic waste. It's usually pretty clearly labelled to reflect that.

Not for eating, guys.

The next morning, I went to breakfast nice and early and got some crepes in the Paris creperie. I got a crepe with berries and syrup and whipped cream and it was the best thing I've ever eaten. I brought my Kindle with me thinking I would play some Scrabble while I ate, but I got so involved in cramming crepes into my face-hole that there was simply no time to play a single word of Scrabble.

But here's the thing: I never eat sweets. I haven't for a long time. My body doesn't do well with large quantities of sugar. And these crepes ... had a lot of sugar in them. Immediately after I finished eating them, I was certain that I had given myself diabetes. But the real damage didn't come until later, when I started to crash. I got a little shaky like I was coming down off a caffeine high ... but dudes ... the baby was PISSED. I have been able to feel Gizmo move a little bit here and there -- usually just a little poke and then nothing. But after those crepes? I felt like I had swallowed a washing machine and it was on the spin cycle. Because Gizmo was all:

But then the little bugger got all frolicky while I was walking around jamming tacos into my face at a reception, too. Maybe s/he just thinks I should be a little more ladylike in my eating habits. Mind your own business, Gizmo.

I drank a lot of decaf coffee while I was there. I never understood why decaf coffee existed until I was pregnant. Now I drink it all the time ... and still don't really understand why it exists.

I hoarded leftovers (as usual). If a group went out to dinner and nobody wanted to take their leftovers home, I would take ALL the leftovers in one box like some kind of scavenger. Laugh all you want, but I never had to buy lunch a single time. Sure, I was sitting at the desk in my hotel room eating cold rabbit leg with my hands, but the point is, I saved money. One day, the only money I spent on food was $1.75 for a banana. PUT THAT IN YOUR PIPE AND SMOKE IT, VEGAS!

Also, if you were wondering what ever happened to 2006 American Idol winner Taylor Hicks, I'm about to tell you: he has made it big. If by "making it big" you mean he plays at a dueling piano bar in the Paris hotel on Monday nights at 8PM. I walked by the place at 7:45 and discovered that there were still plenty of tickets available. I didn't go, though. Because of course I didn't. No one did.

Oh, and as for that whole "pregnant women have good luck at casinos" thing?

I wouldn't know.

I didn't gamble a nickel.

I paid $1.75 for a banana, though.

Still pretty pissed about that.

God, it is so nice to have someone who always agrees with me!!!!!

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